Lunch with Mussolini

by Derek Hansen

  ‘Perhaps you would care to relate to us all the incident with Dr Shapiro—your family physician—and his unfortunate daughter.’

  ‘I do not believe that is necessary, Herr Generalleutnant. You have made your point. With your permission I will withdraw.’ Dietrich hadn’t even begun to stand when Gottfried roared at him.

  ‘Permission refused!’ He glared across the table at Dietrich, daring him to disobey. ‘If you won’t tell the story, then allow me.’

  Coldly and clinically, Gottfried told of the humiliation of Dr Shapiro and his wife, and the cold-blooded execution of their daughter. He was well informed and spared no detail. Christiane listened aghast, daring neither to blink nor breathe as every painful word sunk home. How could Dietrich do such a thing? The girl was his childhood friend. And the same age as herself. Christiane could not help but imagine herself in the Jewish girl’s place. She was also young and beautiful and full of life, and Dietrich had calmly shot her in cold blood. A wave of revulsion washed over her and she thought she was going to be sick. She composed herself with difficulty and waited until her uncle had finished. Then, in the silence that followed, she turned to the man she’d planned to marry.

  ‘Dietrich,’ she asked hesitantly, eyes pleading for a denial she knew would not be forthcoming, ‘tell me it isn’t true?’

  Dietrich knew he’d been out-manoeuvred and soundly beaten. Yet he was determined to give these two foot-soldiers no further satisfaction. He’d done nothing to be ashamed of. On the contrary, he had acted with distinction. If Christiane saw fit to think otherwise, then so be it. He ignored her question. Instead he met Gottfried’s eyes with a steely gaze of his own.

  ‘The Jews are the enemy of the Reich. It was my duty to set an example for my troops, regardless of personal feelings.’

  ‘Then God help us all if that is an example of what we can expect from the Schutzstaffel!’ Gottfried snapped back. ‘As for personal feelings, do not claim what you obviously do not have!’ He glared at Dietrich but the young SS officer didn’t flinch.

  ‘The Führer has chosen us to do this work because he knows other troops have no stomach for it.’

  Gottfried rose to his feet in fury, knocking his chair backwards and scattering glasses. Dietrich also stood and drew himself up to his full height so that he towered over the Generalleutnant.

  ‘And now, with or without your permission, I will take my leave. Herr Schiller, Frau Schiller, Christiane.’

  ‘I will do nothing to delay your leaving,’ hissed Gottfried. ‘Hauptmann Eigenwill! Escort the officer to the door.’

  ‘Sir!’ Friedrich snapped to attention and followed Dietrich out of the room. As they reached the front door, Dietrich suddenly whirled around and pinned him to the wall.

  ‘Don’t think I don’t know why you’ve done this. I, at least, don’t need the services of my commanding officer to procure my women. Don’t imagine for one second that I will ever forget you or that pathetic old fart!’ He moved his face as close to Friedrich’s as he could without touching it. ‘And if I were you, Captain, I would watch my every step from now on. I would sleep with the doors barred and the light on.’ He paused to let his threat sink home. ‘Though I suppose you do already.’ He banged Friedrich against the wall one more time, then opened the front door and disappeared into the night.

  Friedrich closed the door then leaned against it while he caught his breath. What would Christiane think of him now, he wondered? One thing was certain, she wouldn’t thank him for the part he’d just played. But her father’s plea for help had left him with no choice. Glumly, he returned to the dining room. As he expected, Christiane and her mother were no longer there but he was surprised to find Gottfried and Carl arguing bitterly. The Generalleutnant looked up as he entered.

  ‘He just asked if I knew what happened to the rest of the Shapiro family. Dear God! Doesn’t everybody know!’ He turned back to his brother. ‘They were sent East, Carl! They were sent East! Don’t you know what that means? Where have you been these last five years?’

  Friedrich spotted the decanter of Scotch which had appeared on the table and helped himself to a triple. Both Carl and Gottfried had slumped back in their chairs sipping morosely, avoiding each other’s eyes. What a disaster. He closed his eyes and drained half of his whisky in a single gulp. It stung his throat but he took savage pleasure in it. He saw no reason to do otherwise. Dietrich had lost Christiane but so had he. There’d be neither understanding nor forgiveness for what he’d done. He drained his glass and reached for the bottle.

  Christiane held back her tears until she’d closed her bedroom door behind her, then threw herself onto her bed and wept into her pillow. She cried as she hadn’t cried since she was a child, in great wracking sobs that seemed to begin in her toes. She cried for the shattering of her dreams; for the loss of her innocence; for her gallant knight who never was. She cried not for the death of the Jewish girl but for the glimpse it gave her of her own mortality. But mostly she cried for the humiliation she had suffered—and would continue to suffer as word got around about her break-up. And she cried, too, for the hate she felt; for the betrayal by her uncle whom she’d always loved; and for the treachery of the Captain, who she’d come to like and trust. They had done this to her and she vowed never to forgive them.

  On their return to Berlin, Friedrich asked for a transfer to the Panzer school at Weimar. More and more, Gottfried was being drawn into the Army High Command and Friedrich didn’t want to be stuck there when war broke out. Gottfried agreed reluctantly and conditionally. He would use his contacts to get him a posting, though not at Weimar as Friedrich had requested, but in the new Panzer school in Berlin. Gottfried valued Friedrich’s company and advice far too much to let him slip away entirely. Besides, he was still unconvinced of the inevitability of war.

  There was another issue that also begged resolution. Carl Schiller had written to confirm the total estrangement of his daughter from Dietrich Schmidt, but also reluctantly advised that Christiane lay the blame for her heartbreak squarely at their feet. She had expressed the wish to see neither of them ever again. Her father had pleaded with her, explained the circumstances and his own involvement, yet she steadfastly refused to change her mind. There was no reasoning with her. He suggested they ceased their visits for the time being.

  Gottfried knew Friedrich too well not to recognise the change that had come over him. His normal irreverent humour now gave way to cynicism or silence. He had become moody and preoccupied and Gottfried had no doubt as to the cause. But what could he do? Time, he knew, was the great healer but that was something they may not have very much more of. If Friedrich was right and Germany found itself at war, the inevitable separation would kill all hopes of reconciliation. So he resolved to keep Friedrich on hand for as long as he could. Then at least, if opportunity arose, they could take advantage of it. Besides, Gottfried adored Christiane. It pained him immensely to think that he had caused her distress, however laudable the motive. And it hurt even more to think that she no longer had a place for him in her affections. He also knew that Friedrich was the only tonic that would alleviate the pain. The issue was, how to administer it?

  If Gottfried was guilty of anything, it was in underestimating his young Captain. Friedrich had not surrendered, but merely engaged in a tactical withdrawal. What Gottfried had interpreted as resignation was in fact patience. Friedrich was not the sort of man who gave in easily when the prize was so worthwhile. Certainly he was hardly in a strong position, but was it yet hopeless? He determined to find out.

  He waited two months until the first autumn flurries of snow fell, then sent Christiane a letter. He didn’t expect this first shot to breach the walls of her defences, but he planned further salvoes. Each letter would chip away at her resolve. Persistence was his main weapon and, in his persistence, he hoped she would see the dedication and single-mindedness of a man in love with her. Christiane was an incurable if somewhat naïve romantic, and she had enjoyed his previ
ous correspondence. Put the two together and he was sure that one day she would find his letters irresistible and open them.

  At first he wrote every week and then, despite receiving no replies, every three days. He drew some hope from the fact that her father had not written suggesting he cease the deluge. One day she would weaken, and when she did, he would give her no opportunity to deny him. But dear God, hasten the day! His training at the Panzer school demanded his full concentration and virtually every waking hour. These times weren’t conducive to patience. These were times for the strong to exercise their will and reshape the world. Of what consequence were the love-sick ambitions of one young officer?

  Christiane was stunned speechless when the first letter arrived. The appalling gall of the man! She’d made it quite clear that she didn’t ever want to see or hear from him again. She was outraged. But not sufficiently to shred the letter into tiny, unreadable pieces fit only to feed the fire. It fed a fire all right, but one she was not yet prepared to acknowledge. She took the letter up to her room and threw it into a drawer unopened. What she ultimately intended to do with it was unclear even to herself. Her family kept a tactful silence.

  As successive letters arrived, she became less and less outraged. She complained about their frequency and unwanted intrusion to her mother, and generally affected a total disinterest in them. Yet they continued to pile up unopened in her drawer. She began to anticipate their arrival, feeling cheated and let down if there was a delay. Gradually, bit by bit, Friedrich’s persistence chipped away at her defences and at last tiny cracks appeared. She began to take the letters out of her drawer and handle them, as if trying to divine their contents. She arranged them in order of arrival and bound them together with ribbon. One Sunday morning as she lay in bed, discouraged from getting up by the chill in her room and the incessant rain beating on her window, she decided to open them.

  Friedrich and Christiane were married on the first Saturday of December 1938, one year to the day since they’d first met at Little Pillnitz. Following the legal ceremony at the Registrar’s Office, they exchanged vows in the eighteenth century, Protestant cathedral of St Peter, the Frauenkirche. Friedrich’s parents travelled up from Milan for the occasion. Gottfried, newly reinstated to the position of favourite uncle, stood as best man alongside Friedrich beneath the cathedral’s massive dome. Not even the solemnity of the old stone building could suppress the joy of those who attended. When invited to kiss the bride, Friedrich did not hold back yet was still upstaged by Gottfried. The love Gottfried felt for his niece and the anguish he’d suffered at his near loss finally found release. He hugged her and held her until people began to wonder exactly who had married whom.

  Was Christiane happy? Was any woman ever happier? She was so in love just thinking about it reduced her to tears. She couldn’t imagine what she’d ever seen in Dietrich Schmidt, and was horrified to think she’d considered marrying him. Light, laughter and vitality flooded back into her life. They were the perfect couple, the perfect match, indestructible and immortal. She could not conceive of anything that could spoil their perfection. On her horizons at least, there were no clouds.

  After all the ceremonies, the newly-weds retreated to Little Pillnitz for Friedrich’s three remaining days of leave. Perhaps Christiane would have preferred somewhere more exotic for their honeymoon, but she had no regrets. The cold north-east winds sweeping down from the Russian steppes kept them tucked up in bed for warmth or snuggled up together in front of the fire, so that the three days they had together were spent together, as close as any two people could be. They rode a wave of happiness and, if Christiane felt immortal, she was only reflecting the mood of the German people.

  They, too, rode a wave, one of new-found confidence and pride. The Führer’s armaments drive had meant full employment, and relief from the hopelessness of the depression, the burden of reparations, and the humiliations of the Treaty of Versailles. Hitler had also shown what strength of purpose and belief in the superiority of the German race could achieve. The annexation of Austria was proof of that. The creation of Grosswirtschaftsraum, the economically self-sufficient unification of all German-speaking people, was no longer a dream but a realistic objective.

  Friedrich, however, was not infected by the nationalistic fervour. He did his best to shut his concerns from his mind. But in the lonely hours at night, with his new wife curled against him for warmth, he wondered what the future held. How would Britain and France react if Hitler decided to march on from the Sudetenland into Bohemia and Moravia? Would they stand passively by? And if so, what next? Would they also allow Hitler to march into Poland? There’d be another war, of that he had no doubt. What would happen to them then? What would happen to his lovely new wife? He felt a chill course through his body which had nothing to do with the icy winds outside, or the snow piling up against the side of the house.

  ‘What’s this?’ demanded Gancio. ‘Another break for coffee? How come you want two coffee breaks? One has always been good enough in the past. Maria! They want more coffee!’

  ‘No, not another coffee break,’ said Lucio wearily. ‘That is all for today. I’m not used to telling this sort of story. I had no idea it could be so tiring.’

  ‘You’ve done well, Lucio.’ Ramon reached over and patted his friend’s arm. ‘You’ve given us enough to think about.’

  ‘Where did you get all this “Obersturmführer” and “Schutzstaffel” stuff from, Lucio? I haven’t heard so many double-bunger words before in my life.’

  ‘Italy was an occupied country, Neil. As a child, you played cowboys and Indians and cops and robbers. We played partisans and Nazis. We knew every rank of the Wehrmacht and the SS. Our bad guys were the Waffen-SS and the Allgemeine-SS, especially the Gestapo. We shot more Germans after the war than during it.’

  ‘There! You’re doing it again,’ said Neil plaintively. ‘What the hell’s the Allgemeine-SS?’

  ‘Thought police,’ cut in Milos. ‘If they thought they didn’t like you they arrested you, no?’

  ‘That’s right.’ Lucio laughed at the distraction. ‘Allgemeine-SS were in charge of police and racial matters. They did a lot of tracking down of Jews. They were also in charge of foreign and domestic intelligence and espionage. The Gestapo was part of their most important division, the Reichssicherheitshauptampt.’

  Ramon laughed. ‘Try saying that, Neil, when you’re full of grappa!’

  ‘Give me a break. But where did Dietrich fit in? What division was he with?’

  ‘He was with the Waffen-SS. They were Hitler’s personal bodyguard. They ran the concentration camps, and one corps, the Verfügungstruppe, served alongside regular troops.’

  ‘Verfügungstruppe, eh? Lucio do me a favour. Can we have next week’s instalment in English?’

  The friends broke into easy banter as they waited for their coffee. But Milos looked across at Ramon wondering if he was thinking the same thing. Lucio’s knowledge was more than the stuff acquired in playgrounds. It smacked of research and, if so, what did that signify? Neil’s cynical observation at the start of lunch may have been closer to the truth than they’d given him credit for. Very interesting.

  THIRD THURSDAY

  Lucio deliberately contrived to be last to arrive. He knew his friends would expect a continuation of Cecilia and Colombina’s story, and he wouldn’t disappoint them. But he didn’t want to be pumped for a preview. Their enthusiasm for a good story made them greedy and it was a greed he shared. It helped build a sense of expectation. Normally he’d happily titillate them with sneaky glimpses of the tales he was about to tell. But those stories were plainly contrivances, light entertainment, like bringing on the clowns between the more serious acts. The truth was, if he was going to pull this story off, he had to keep his ambition within the bounds of his ability. He’d planned exactly how far he wanted to go with the day’s episode and he didn’t want to be pushed into going any further. That could upset his timing and he didn’t want to arouse suspi
cions unnecessarily by stalling later on. His story was developing its own pace as every story does. It meant he could plan ahead more accurately but, equally, any variation tended to put an alert audience on its guard. That was the last thing he needed.

  He looked across to the table as soon as he entered the restaurant. As if cued, Milos began to rise to his feet. The affectation always made him smile. Milos had arrived from Hungary without two pennies to rub together and made his money by disposing of other people’s rubbish. It was a hard and competitive business where street cunning was more important than nice manners. His old world courtesies were undoubtedly a recent addition to his repertoire.

  ‘Sorry I’m late.’ He greeted each of his friends in turn.

  ‘Before you ask,’ said Neil, ‘Gancio is joining us later. Same rules as last week. In your absence, we questioned him extensively but he emphatically denies any collusion with you. Furthermore, he regrets that you’re Italian, pisses on your grandmother’s grave and admits that the only thing that stops him throwing you out of his restaurant is your friendship with us, whom he likes and respects enormously.’

  ‘Thank you, Neil,’ said Lucio evenly. ‘It is good to see that he has stuck to the script.’

  ‘I think you went too far when you said Gancio respects us enormously. It was enough that he likes us, no?’ Milos turned to Lucio for confirmation.

  ‘Correct, but not entirely. Gancio likes some of you. I happen to know that Gancio commits indecent acts upon the veal he serves Neil. I can prove this. Notice how Neil is always the first to comment on its tenderness?’ Lucio gave Neil his most arch smile. ‘By the way, what are we having for lunch?’

  ‘Vegetarian antipasto, seafood soup, and quail. Now, where are you taking us today?’

  ‘Back to Italy.’

  ‘Thank God,’ said Neil. ‘I don’t speak any Italian but it’s a bloody sight better than my German.’